The End Of Dustbowl
by RadarRun
Summary: Servers wear down. Subscribers lose interest. But what will happen in Dustbowl whenever Team Fortress 2 finally closes down?
1. Chapter 1

THE END OF TF2: Part 1, in which an announcement is made.

The alarm almost went unheard, struggling as it did over the frantic booms and whooshes of the battlefield.

Almost.

"ATTENTION, COMBATENTS" said the cool female voice.

Then a pause. The voice didn't seem to know quite what it was doing.

Heat radiated in waves off the tin roofs of Dustbowl (pop. 1402 and falling.) A few faces (lightly dusted, or covered in blood) turned to the speakers.

"A SHORT MESSAGE FOLLOWS."

What followed, however, was not a message. As sounds began to flow beguilingly from the speaker, the mercenaries, one by one, stopped fighting, more out of amazement than anything else. A red Demoman, lifting his eye patch quizzically, more or less summed up the feelings of the field.

"Music?" he said.

Indeed, soft babbling music was flowing from the speakers dotted around the battlefield, bringing to mind (in its antiseptic pleasantness), thousands of doctors' waiting rooms long-forgotten, and the ghosts of elevators past.

"I remember music..." said a BLU spy. He paused briefly in the act of raising the knife, and kicked the foot of the inattentive RED sniper he'd been about to perforate.

"Eh. _Connard_. Music." he said.

The sniper spun, terror melting to anger melting to frank disbelief. Then he too heard the music.

"What in the bloody hell...?"

He approached the edge of the platform, and stared down at the masses below him. Two scouts, hands at each others throats, had stopped and had joined the gathering crowd at the foot of the telephone pole, staring at the speakers. RED flipped his earpiece away inquisitively. ("Wassa'?")

(Away on a hillside, a medic, lost in dreams of the old Operamrheinhaus in Duisburg, tapped his foot appreciatively to the measured, orderly calm of one of the meister's finest works. "Ahh..." he said, "_Bach_...")

One last hollow clang rang out; odd counterpoint to the fine, measured rhythm of the music. The last engineer sheepishly put his wrench down. "Sorry," he said to the unhearing crowd. And joined them.

It only took a second for some one to draw a conclusion in the eerie, still silence created by the sudden surcease of combat. "Phone music." said one Heavy flatly. His Medic, used to deciphering cryptic Russian in far worse conditions, still had to raise an eyebrow.

"Hein?" he said.

"Phone music. Vhen they make you vait on zeh phone." said the Heavy sullenly.

The heavy's voice was booming enough to carry his words to others in the crowd, leaving whispers spreading like ripples in the wake of a dropped pebble.

"He's right, you know..."

"...stalling tactic-"

"_hate_ it when they do that-"

"hold..."

"...hold"

"We've been out on hold." concluded the Medic.

"_Da_. Phone music." rumbled the Heavy.

The music ceased, with an abrupt scratch that suggested the wanton abuse of a helpless record player. (At least three engineers- obviously connoisseurs of the finer music systems- winced in unison.) Sounds of scuffling came over the mic.

"ATTENTION COMBATENTS", said the voice.

Wind howled over the scrubby grasslands. There was a pause.

"CEASE FIRE." said the voice.

Hardly necessary. In an entirely unprecedented situation, the whole place was motionless and silent. (Well, not strictly true- one RED scout cracked a crit-o-cola, took a swig and passed it wordlessly to his BLU counterpart, also staring in mute astonishment at the speakers.)

"HEAR THIS:" said the voice. "AS OF 19:45 TODAY, ALL ENEMY AND COUNTER-ENEMY ACTION WILL CEASE. REPEAT: AS OF 19:45 TODAY, ALL COMBAT ON BOTH SIDES WILL CEASE. ALL CLASSES ARE TO GIVE UP THOSE WEAPONS THAT DO NOT BELONG TO THEM UPON RETURN TO BASE. ALL PERSONNEL THAT ARE STILL ALIVE WILL BE PROVIDED WITH RETURN TRANSPORT EQUAL TO THAT USED IN ARRIVAL. AND WE'LL TRY TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT BACKLOG OF PAYCHECKS. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME, GENTLEMEN, BUT THE WAR IS OVER. I REPEAT: THE WAR HAS BEEN WON."

Then a harsh screech as the mic was cut.

A pause...

And then an almost instinctive drawing apart between the teams, and a great inrush of breath. "Waitwaitwaitwaitwait!" said a RED Scout, bat already defensively drawn. "What time is it?" "Eight O'clock", said the astonished spy who had been preparing to dig a blade in his ribs. "Ja," said a BLU medic, snapping shut a pocket watch with an authoritative click, "Or a little after."

...

Reader, can anyone _describe_ the chaos that followed? To say "dancing in the streets" is an understatement. To say "noise fit to shake the walls of Jericho" is an understatement. To say "multiple cases of sweaty make-outs" is an understatement indeed. The place _shook_. The place _bounced_. One Demoman took an overenthusiastic swig from his bottle and nearly had his other eye out. Scoutsplosions dotted the landscape. (In a private corner many miles from the main square, A RED sniper sheepishly muttered a long-pent-up confession to a BLU spy and was rewarded with a double handful of flying-leap Spah and a nicotine kiss you could strip paint with.)

And when the noise died down, there was the healthy chatter of schoolchildren released for summer holidays, and a movement- as one- as a chanting, dancing, singing whole- to the bases, to prepare -finally- for the long ride home.

* * *

The music they were listening to could well be Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 6, which I have heard through more phone systems than I ever would have voluntarily. I personally find Bach too fussy, though- Pachebel's canon in D works better (but it works better *everywhere*, amirite? Ooooooh, Bach-burn!)


	2. Chapter 2

THE END OF TF2: Part 2, In which Eaves are Dropped (Sniper x Telephone)

The main problem, certainly first of all, was the phones.

Telephone poles dotted the landscape; but had universally been dismissed as worthless props (good for a little cover and nothing else) until, as the place still reeled from the announcement, one inquisitive scout put his ear to the receiver and excitedly shouted that hey, they're _workin_' now. Crowds of wannabe communicators had blossomed around the base of the poles like autumn mushrooms around an oak, and the standard US quarter now had the approximate value of five grams of gold.

A RED sniper leaned in to the receiver. "Mum- mum. Turn yer aid up. I'll be- I'll be home in the- MUM!"

One wildly gesticulating Spy was currently holding up the queue about five miles away. "_Collette! Collete, c'est fini! Je ne sais pas pourqoui, mais je peut retourner! Mais tout suite! Comment est notre petite bebe, Colette? Il me semble?"_

One engineer ran a calloused thumb up the spine of a discreet little black book as he leaned against the phone's casing; "Betsy; now y'all know how you promised'a keep me honorable once I got home, hur hur..."

Already, a group of RED and BLU scouts had set up a soccer game in the wasted sands outside the RED base, formerly a no-man's-Land. Until a BLU sniper, blessed with the capacity for limitless good-natured violence shared by all former British colonies, threw his hat in the air and leapt into the fray with a cry more animal than human and more "sonic phenomenon" than animal. After that a small but nippy RED spy had proved a formidable striker, until a game-for-anything Pyro had leapt into the fray and hard-shouldered him out of existence. A BLU soldier stood stiffly at attention beside the goal, and was thus swiftly subbed out for a RED heavy, who repeatedly rumbled that he didn't understand the rules of this game of tiny leetle men, but who filled enough of the goal mouth for this not to be a problem. At this point of course, the game was not so much a "game" as it was a living, breathing organism made of elbows and powered entirely by dirty kicks, but everyone was having so much fun it was difficult to consider breaking them up.

"First thing I'm gonna do when I get home, I'm gonna go see my moms. Have some of the best damn clam chowder in the Upper West Side. BAM!"

"Your muzzer? Ah, perhaps we could share a train."

"What the hell you talkin' about, pal?"

"Did your dear muzzer ever tell you about ze 'andsome rogue who acted as your fazzer?"

"No. She told me about the lyin' cheatin' backstabbin' scumbag who upped and left, though."

"Lying, backstabbing- ah, _petit_, we have so much to talk about. But later. On the train. _Au revoir, petit regent_."

"What the- *shrug*. Anyway, second thing I'm gonna do is beat the ever-living snot out of every single one of my brothers with *BONK* this baby here…"

A group of snipers, moving with almost unearthly hivemind instinct (as snipers are wont to do) had already struck out for the horizon. And the sight, it was universally agreed, of fifty or sixty Winnebago RVs moving in drunken, swerving, singing-the-filthiest-version-of-Waltzing-Matilda convoy towards the orange sunset was a sight to bring a throb to the most hardened of hearts. (Swerving quite a lot, actually; the alliance of Demomen had been generous in sharing out reserves of their 110% proof "Holy-Mary" moonshine, because, as one man had roared, already quite, quite spectacularly drunk, "we won't be needin' _reserves_ anymore, will we?")

* * *

Spy translation 1: "Collette! Colette, it's over! I don't know why, but I can come back home! Soon! How is the baby, Colette? Does he look like me?"  
Spy translation 2: "Goodbye, little prince."

Isn't strange how mythologies develop? Despite the fact that it's never given in any of the advertising scree, we all _know_ that Scoot is an annoying little bugger who zips around bothering people in his spare time, a la potter puppet pals. Soldier, we know _for certain_, lives in a long Strangelove-esque "war room" covered in maps and red string. And no-one would ever accuse Pyro, say, of being evil (even despite the official bio) in the same way Medic or Spy is, simply because _that's not his character_. He's _so clearly _a cuddly little snugglebum who loves cooking and bunny rabbits and roasting things alive, in that order. It used to be that online FPSs came in two flavours; "with story" or "without". TF2 bizarrely, seems to be growing* a story like you'd evolve a prehensile limb, and I for one applaud it.  
*Take, as example, the way the Demoman's intro spiel had to be retconned after the War! update.

I've always been a fan of the portmanteau style of storytelling (read: I have the a attention span of a hyperactive gnat) and besides, I think the action _would_ be pretty fragmented at the time, I mean geez. What I'd really like to do is open it out to other characters- anybody with ideas (who doesn't mind me getting my grubby pawprints all over them) should say so in the review.


	3. Chapter 3

THE END OF TF2 Chapter 3: In Which The Love Which Dare Not Speak Its Name doesn't

The casualties of war, of course, are not always in full view blood'd.

"Medic?" said the Red Heavy, tenting his index fingers in a surprisingly delicate gesture, "where vill you go after this?"

The man's reply was brisk, and to the point.

"Maria." he said crisply. "She vos my vun true love. She vas to make my zoul burn viz ze fire of a zousand banked sunz. She makes my mind to sore on ze vings of a zousand glorious eagles. First, zen, I go to Liddle Katzenjammerplatz in Vienna and I visit Maria. Zen maybe I visit my vife."

"A wife?" said Heavy. He had never quite gotten that far. Despite coming from a village that understood the value of a boy who could lift a tractor overhead and do so with a smile on his face, no dawdling dream-faced wench had ever consented to dally with him for any amount of time longer than, oooh, thirty minutes or so. (Forty on a good day.) Maybe it was his shyness. Maybe it was his lack of a way with words. Maybe- just maybe- it was the gun. From the time he had started fighting (oh, so long ago) to about six months ago, he had thought Sasha the only thing in his life worth a damn.

From then on, of course, it was the dear Medic.

"Ya. Vife. I check und ze if liddle Maria and Liddle Hans are getting on alright in ze kindergarten, and zen I re-establish my old practise back in ze old town sqvuare, und everyzing vill be chinger ale und lollipops." The medic snapped his case shut with a firm, practised click.

Children? Dear god...

"Ah, liddle Maria," said the medic, his sharp features softening a little "she is my pride und joy, you know? Sharp as ein pin and twice as bright. I see her and I zink, "I know now vhy I go to pointless war viz American meatshields", you know? Und liddle Hans! So strong! Not like hiz muzzer at all. You should see him running, Heavy." said the Medic, eyes happily lost to a golden past. "He is I zink qvuite ze qvickest runner in all his class. Zere is an athlete in him, if only he vould focus a leedle more." he chuckled happily.

Heavy bit his lip again- deep enough to draw blood. This surprised him- he was not used to the coppery taste, because he had always had...

Always had...

_ch'yort voz'mi._

"You should visit sometime, I am thinking," said the medic, pulling plugs rapidly from the last few beeping machines left active in the infirmary. "Zis is acceptable behavior for old var camarads, ya? Ve vill sit around und drink ein grosser steinen and tell outrageously inflated stories and scare ze local children viz our scarz, ya?"

"Da," mumbled the heavy, because English was such a heavy, ugly language. It had none of the heady, flowing sibilants nor the sharp, interesting corners of his mother tongue. Nothing in it to give wing to words he really felt.

YA lyublyu tebya. Lyubov vashe litso. Lyubov smotrit na tebya zaryada slavoi boi v vashih glazah. Lyubov myagkoi voi travmy. Lyubov kozhu. Ili, drugimi slovami, vyidi so mnoi. Gory, medika, v gorah. YA mogu pokazat vam gory. Love you. Love you. Love you.

"Vhat vos zat?" said the medic, as they walked slowly out of the ward for the last time.

"Nothing." said the Heavy, as the words spooled through his mind again, singing and screaming and crying to be heard. "But travel I kennot. Trains in my country..."

"Ah yes. But zis is presumptous of me, to zink you would have ze time. Vhat do you return to, Heavy?" said the Medic, as they emerged squinting into the sunlight of the RED courtyard.

The Heavy thought. About lonely, howling farmsteads, and the dryness of earth. And rebelled.

"Well," he said, taking courage in both hands, "zat is vhat I wanted to-"

"Look!" one red-gloved hand pointed suddenly at the sky.

Spiraling from a window that surmounted the door where a thousand or more snow-white paper airplanes. A laughing engineer, ably assisted by a charmingly red-faced scout, shook billows of white wings into the air. They fluttered in the short lived breeze, and landed in shoals over and around the Heavy/Medic pair.

"What the..." said the Heavy, examining this new, unfamiliar whiteness. "What is this trick?"

The medic, who had been delightedly applauding the feat, picked up a single plane, and unfolded it. His face lit like a small sun as realization dawned.

"Zis- zis is ze intel!" he cried. "Zis is _our_ intel! Ha-ha-HA!"

He all but skipped for glee, and threw a sheaf of the paper into the air with giddy abandon.

(The Heavy squinted at the window. Sure enough, a suitcase in team colours was being gleefully banged against the window frame, to get the last planes (and cranes, he could see) out into the open.)

"Mein gott!" said the Medic, wiping his brow. "I must keep one fore Liddle Maria, as a true token of the day ze var ended. Zis truely is a token- zings are changing so qvuickly, are they not?"

The Heavy looked at the shower of paper planes, now coming to a close- he looked the medic, cheeks flushed in un-medic glee, stowing a paper plane away in his breast pocket for some smiling child thousands of miles away.

"Zey are." he said, smiling, "But some thinks, Doktor, should not change." He picked up a case, filled to the top with whatever he had felt it necessary to pack.

"Goodbye, Doktor." he had said.

And the sunset engulfed him for the last time.

* * *

Heavy Translation (according tothe good people at Google Translate):  
(1) Shit.  
(2) I love you. Love your face. Love watching you charge with the glory of battle in your eyes. Love the soft whine of your injuries. Love your skin. Or in other words, come away with me. The mountains, medic, the mountains. I could show you the mountains.  
(After the "Beaux and Arrows" achievement for the Sniper was introduced, I'm calling it; brother, this shit be _canon_.)


	4. Chapter 4

THE END OF TF2: Part 4, in which a boy becomes a man.

Accidents occurred, of course. One BLU scout- so incensed by what he believed to be theft- took the scattergun to a RED spy, and dropped him in a shot.

Silence spread out from the incident like the toll of a tongueless bell. Others, from both teams, had witnessed the incident- surely now, ran the whispers, this would be a new and more horrible genesis- a re-start to all the pointless, pointless fighting?

The problem had been solved when a BLU engineer, face contorted in a sneer of contempt, had laid a hand heavily on the boy's shoulder.

"Y'all had better be prepared to pay for that." he rasped. Without turning, he pulled the spade from the grip of a passing BLU soldier. The boy's eye quivered; fearing violence.

The man slammed the spade into the boy's chest, nearly sending him backwards with the force of it. He looked frankly as though he'd been handed a severed limb, so deep was his shock.

"His name..." the engineer leaned down, delicately flipping aside the lapel of the spy's jacket. The inner lining of the jacket was sumptuous; clearly couture, and yet somehow uniform. In the breast pocket- and he handled it distastefully, in his one ungloved hand-was a brown leather wallet, well-worn and fading at the edges. But inside- the engineer checked and re-checked in frank disbelief- nothing. Not a coin, not a photo, not a lightly-abraded thing.

"Is ridiculous." said a BLU spy from the crowd, nervously wafting away cigarette smoke. "He would- We do not carry identification. To do so would be foolish, and bad craft."

"I see." The engineer stood up, carefully placing the wallet in the dust beside its former owner.

"He was a RED spy", he said to the crowd.

"Name unknown."

"And YOU." This to the scout, who had been trying to creep away in the interim. "Well, you had better be prepared to do the right damn thing, y'understand me?"

The scout nodded, suddenly resigned to something larger than he was.

With that, the Engineer bent once again, and picked up the ankles of the dead spy. Grunting, he managed to heave the lifeless body up- and then tumbled. His fatigue was almost visible under the merciless desert sun.

A soldier- perhaps the one who's spade had been stolen- darted forward, in the semi-instinctual gesture of men seeing a struggling comrade. He grasped the shoulders of the dead man with a grunt, and together they managed to lift the dead man to around shoulder height.

Struggling thus, they started to make their jerky, undignified way towards the wide doors of the base.

"Come on, boy," said the engineer; but the BLU scout was already there, gripping the shovel like a lifeline, face pale and drawn with the perceived importance of his role; an altar boy carrying the host for the first time.

(In dribs and drabs, the crowd began to follow them out.)

The sun was high when they left the comforting corrugated confines of the base- it had crept only a few finger-widths when they had finally come to a halt. "Here." said the scout "right?"

The shovel bit into the hard, compacted soil; the scout's determined foot barely made a quarter-inch more of a difference. Clearly, a body built for flight had no great affinity for hard labour like this. Sweat- was it only sweat?- ran down his face and did little to soften the dirt below. He leaned on the spade, breathing heavily, and rubbed fruitlessly at his welling eyes with the grubby white bindings on his hands.

"Oh, for goodness' sake." The BLU spy from the base pushed forward. He shrugged off his jacket and let it land, with a careless flap, in the dirt. He too acquired a spade from a red soldier who had been made curious by the dust cloud in the middle of nowhere, and set to work, his rolled-up sleeves exposing pasty white arms which had clearly not seen sunlight in weeks.

The crowd grew, hour by hour; another BLU scout went haring back to base to fetch a handful of shovels for the impatient mourners; a medic stepped in to deal with fatigue caused by the sun. (In a quiet space where the body lay in state, a Pyro, red with embarrassment, mumbled what little he could remember of the Te Deum over the body; through the harsh filters of the gasmask, it came out as little more than a whisper, but the message, he thought, got through.)

The sun was orange when they finally laid the body reverentially in the stony-sided pit; men leaned on their knees, panting harshly, as they watched the corpse being moved (the poor BLU scout had held the torso in a brother's embrace and refused all help as they lowered the body down.)

(One aberration- the scout had made to pull off the RED spy's mask before the first few shovelfuls of dirt were added. "No", said the BLU spy flatly, staying his hand. "For god's sakes, no.")

Flares of Demoman moonshine were lighting the burial site by the time the last handful of dirt was patted down. The last shoveler but two, a RED Pyro, nodded at them politely and walked away, back to the bases now teeming with light and distant sound. Sitting on the burial mound was the BLU scout, knees drawn up to his head.

The now-placid engineer had refitted his hat to his closely-shaven head, and crouched beside the boy, waving a hand at the diamond-points of light in the clear, placid sky.

"Now, you see." he had said. "Now you see what it's like."

The scout had nodded.

And with that, the engineer had risen on his toes, and begun the long walk home.

The BLU scout stayed crouched on the mound, as still and silent as the shovel buried hasp-deep at the head of the grave, lost in a swaddling bundle of silent thought.

He was a RED spy.

There were no more friendly-fire incidents after that.

* * *

"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corse to the ramparts we carried"- come on guys, just let him respawn, he'll be fine.

Let's assume that the Spy's name was Robert Paulson, right? (pron. Ro-BER' PawELsonne", cuz he is of the French.)


	5. Chapter 5

THE END OF TF2: part 5, in which Righteous Indignation is Done.

On the final night...

It was dark. The lights were going out all over Dustbowl. Most of the trains, filled with laughing, shouting passengers and the popping of champagne corks, had left the dusty station, but one final carriage (presided over by a stoic Engineer) waited for stragglers, and for the Men of God.

Who are the Men of God, you ask?

Well, right now, two or three of them are ankle deep in sewage.

Humming a terrible, malicious little tune, one Demoman fired three rounds of stickybombs at the mouth of the tunnel. Punctuating each beat of the song ("Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory") with a bomb launch, he wandered up the tunnel, before leaving three final sticky grenades at the other end of the pipe. Still the terrible little humming continued, echoing up the sewer's length as he threw a handful of grenades back at the tunnel. He emerged above ground level and wandered over to the other Demoman- a BLU- who was packing dynamite lovingly around the base of a key structural support pillar, as though tucking in a sleeping child. God knows how he did it, the night being dark and the- ahem- ocular disadvantage being in play, but perhaps he was motivated by something higher. The RED patted him on the shoulder, and together they began to move to a pre-arranged spot some way out in the desert.

Eventually, from all over the base, Demomen emerged- some brushing soot from their face, some beating dust from their sleeves, all looking strangely depleted in the armory department. They gathered in a spot some- in fact, many miles- from either base, and about halfway between both. No words were exchanged, for they were Scottish, and reveled in meaningless Celtic stoicism. They seemed all to be waiting for something.

At last they found it- a RED Demoman, barely more than a dark smudge against the sand, approached the pre-arranged spot. Was it the moon which cast that grey and ominous shadow behind him, or was it grim fate that mired him so inextricably to- no, in fact it was neither. The black shadow connecting him to the base _was_ a piece of string.

Hmmm.

The RED Demoman approached his compatriots and nodded gruffly; a sign that some vital work was completed. Finding a Y-shaped twig, he stuck it fork-side up in the sand and delicately- ever so delicately- he placed the end of the black string on the very crux of the fork.

A pause.

The crowd of waiting Demomen parted- revealing the plump, round form of a Pyro ("honorary" Demoman _summa cum laude_.)

The Red Demo nodded.

Delicately- oh so delicately- the click of a tiny button on the side of the Backburner brought to life the tiny blue fragile flicker of the pilot light. Cautiously- as though frightened of scaring it away- the Pyro eased forward, and delicately-

O-h-s-o-d-e-l-i-c-a-t-e-l-y- he swung the flame over to touch the tip of the string.

Gradually, it smoldered, and caught- flashing fire to the darkness, before it settled to a steady, travelling smolder.

Travelling? Why yes, it was travelling along the black string back to the base.

They watched it go, the steady hiss of the fuse and the chirp of the crickets the only sound abroad. When the sliver of flame hit doorway the Demomen- as one- raised their remotes on high, in a strange salute. (The Pyro didn't have a remote, so he raised a fist- that seemed to work.)

And when the flame disappeared- they pressed the buttons.

The noise was something beyond deafening. It was like someone dropping a tectonic plate, and the resulting shatter was creating continents. God was playing dice with the universe and, as gods are wont to do, he was rolling twenties. A fireball arced one hundred feet into the sky, taking with it bits and pieces of the RED and BLU base, and leaving behind smoldering support beams that burnt merrily, with a devil's abandon.

A whoosh of dust and sand travelled horizontally for at least ten miles around, causing the Men of God, even here, to shade unprotected eyes quickly and fearfully. Apart from one, that is. The Pyro was staring into the flames with a vigor approaching that of first love.

It would seem that their plan was a success.

They congratulated each other, sharing hearty slaps on the back, unintelligible words and swigs of the specially-brewed "Firecracker" celebratory poteen. As a man, they turned, laughing, to the train station, where luggage and the long ride home awaited them.

Apart from the Pyro. Who couldn't have moved, even if he had wanted to. Because tears- large and unashamed- filled the glass panels of his gasmask. Why, you ask?

Because someone-

somewhere-

had _finally_ found a use for the Afterburner.

* * *

Would you believe the whole five-chapter arc was building to a really pathetic "Afterburner" snap?  
...No?  
I thought not. Still, as my ol' granny always said, there's only one way to end any really good story- with EXPLOSIONS. That's five of five, people (though I might do an alternate ending if my computer stops being such a charmingly incompetant bitch.)  
All critiscism appreciated.


End file.
